


For King and Country

by versaphile



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Gangbang, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Magic, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 21:32:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/versaphile/pseuds/versaphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin will do anything to save Camelot. Arthur will do anything to bring him back. For both, they will need ritual, and many hands.</p><p>All magic is transitive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For King and Country

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [For King and Country](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7235344) by [Aconit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aconit/pseuds/Aconit)



Merlin loves Camelot. It's not where he was born, where he grew up. He never formally became a citizen, unless he counts oaths sworn over and over in his heart. But Camelot is his anyway, his kingdom, and he loves it. He loves it because it is a place of beauty and honor and deep, ancient magic, and most of all he loves it because of its king.

Arthur is its king; the king is Camelot, and Camelot is its king. Merlin belongs to Arthur, and so belongs to Camelot, as does every peasant and every noble, every Druid and every knight. Merlin looks out over the battlements sometimes and feels a sense of peace he never expected. A sense of rightness, of belonging to a greater whole. Of never being alone ever again.

He is not unchanged by this.

When magic was finally returned to Camelot, when the bindings of pain and death were lifted from the kingdom, Merlin had not expected his own magic to be affected. The change came upon him slowly, as the rituals and prayers of the Old Religion returned to every family, every village. Before, Merlin so rarely acknowledged to himself that he was not merely a sorcerer, not merely a man who happens to have great power. He is a creature of the Old Religion, as purely of magic as a dragon or a unicorn, no matter that he was born of woman. And Camelot has always been the center of the most powerful and oldest of magics, even under Uther's yoke.

He moves with the seasons now, pulled along by wind and water, sunk into the earth and lit by fire and lightning. He would easily have lost himself a long time ago, but Camelot is not an untamed wilderness. Camelot is also civilization and order and codes, and now he understands what Kilgharrah meant, all those years ago, when he took his first blind, stumbling steps towards his destiny. Arthur is the half that makes him whole, that balances him and grounds him. Merlin is nature, wild and intemperate, and Arthur is the strong hand that tames it.

When Merlin gets lost, Arthur finds him and brings him back. Arthur will always bring him back. Merlin is more certain of that than he is of anything else, even when he is no longer certain of himself. Even when he has been stretched across the land until he is everywhere and nowhere, even when he is caught in the shape of a bird or a beast, even when the wheel of days turns and his magic is fed by endless tributaries of worship until it is as high and swollen as a spring flood. 

Arthur always brings him back. Sometimes all he has to do is call; a whisper and Merlin hears him, turns on the air and wings his way home again. Sometimes it is touch that draws him back, when his soul is far from his body, lost in the whirl of snow and wind on the coldest nights. Arthur will press against him, and Merlin will once again hear the crack and pop of the hearth, feel the weight of heavy blankets, the roughness of calloused hands. He will find his own flesh again, the shape of his body too small and tight to fit him. But he will touch Arthur back and remember the uses of a man's body, the pleasure and sweetness and the simple joy of it, to have eyes and hands and feet. 

And for a while, that will be enough. His magic will settle again, and he will be simply Merlin, Arthur's Merlin. He will spend his days and nights at Arthur's side, helping him rule as a wise and just king. Making him laugh when he gets too serious, making him smile instead of frown, keeping him and their kingdom safe and healthy and strong. He is Arthur's closest friend, his advisor, his lover, his shield; he is happy to be whatever Arthur needs of him. It may be weeks or months before he is lost again, before his magic is too big and wild to be contained.

Sometimes, Arthur needs help to bring him back. He needs ritual, and many hands.

§

On the hottest day of the year, Merlin burns with power. His magic is a fever setting him alight. He can feel the parched soil and the thirsty forests, the grain leaning heavy with only the slightest breeze. The streams have all run low, and there is no coolness in the waters. He is out of balance, consumed with the fire of the baking sun, all the other elements weak or insubstantial.

Arthur calls his knights to him, who he trusts even at his most vulnerable. There are the survivors of those he founded his reign with -- Gwaine and Percival and Leon -- and there is the man who defied prophecy and helped turn the tide at Camlann. There is Mordred.

Merlin still has enough sense left in him to ride, and so in the stillness of dawn they let out from the castle, a trail of silver and red broken only by Merlin's blue, marking him out as different just as his servant's brown once did. He's always felt safe with them, always loved the feeling of being surrounded by them. They are as much an extension of Arthur as Camelot is, and they are also his friends, and he loves them.

They know what he needs. Water to wash him; wind to cool him; earth to shelter him. There is a cavern, not far from the Crystal Caves, and they have been there before. Leon takes guard position at the entrance; he is not entirely comfortable with magic even now; in his heart he straddles the reign of two kings. He would lay down his life for Merlin in a heartbeat, but for this he's happier to stay with the horses. 

The five of them climb down, down, deep under the surface where the heat cannot reach, guided by the gentle light of Mordred's magic instead of flickering torches. Merlin is trembling as they finally reach the cavern, weak from the heat that burns in his body and the sun that sears the land and therefore his magic. To salve the land they must salve his magic, and to do this they must salve his body. All magic is transitive.

They strip him naked and lay him down on the cool, bare rock. A constant breeze moves through through the airy space, breathing in and out of the darkness beyond the circle of Merlin's light. An underground stream surfaces here, running quick and cold, and they scoop water over him. At first it actually sizzles as it pours over him, he is so painfully hot, but eventually he is cooled enough to be touched without protection. He feels Arthur's bare hand and keens softly, leans into it needily. He cannot find his balance again without Arthur, without the touch of skin and bodies and humanity, to take the raw elements and unite them, mold them. Without order, without structure, the elements will not harmonize, will not balance. Arthur and his knights are order, the final element, and he must take them within himself as he does the rest.

Mordred mutters low words, and the breeze picks up, swirls around and around in tightening circles. Merlin is aware of Arthur telling him to breathe, take deep breaths, as if he is some woman swollen with child. In a way he is, because the land is ripened before its harvest, the drought like the agony before the taking of its fruits, and if Camelot is ripe then so is he.

Percival waters him, and Mordred brings air, and then there is Gwaine, steady, earthy Gwaine, pressing a rock into each hand, a pebble into his navel and another onto his tongue. They are cool and damp from the stream, and he sucks absently at the pebble before finally swallowing it. It is small and smooth and he feels it creep down his throat, muscles working until it drops into some space inside him. His magic flares.

"Easy now," Arthur says, holding Merlin as he arches, his hands in tight fists around the rocks. "Almost past the worst of it. Stay with us."

Merlin struggles, earth and fire fighting for dominance. His head is tilted back, and Percival pours a great handful of water into him, and his magic rises again. Fire buckles and then flares anew, trying to melt the earth, to boil the water. There are three pairs of hands holding him down, and he's distantly aware of Mordred chanting, the wind narrowing into a funnel above him. The fire rises in him, higher and higher, because air can feed fire and make it stronger, but Mordred has other ideas. The funnel pulls itself to Merlin's mouth and Merlin can't breathe, all the heated air pulled out of him in a rush, and the flames rise only to find themselves starved and snuffed.

When he can breathe again, cool cavern air pushed into his lungs, the fire has been banked. It is embers now, controlled and no longer dominant. All four elements are inside him, jostling unsteadily, their turbulence roiling his magic this way and that.

"It's done," Merlin says, opening his hands. The rocks tumble to the stone floor, crushed into the shape of the insides of Merlin's fists, as if they were clay and not hard granite. The pebble in his navel is gone, used up. The hands leave him, and he hears the clatter of chainmail onto rock, the softer sound of cloth against skin. Blankets are laid out away from the puddle of water that Merlin lies in. He doesn't need to be cooled down anymore. He shivers as he's lifted and dried, and sighs as they lay him down again.

"Hey," Arthur said, leaning over him, looking a little worried. "Back with us?"

"Mostly," Merlin says, trying to smile for him. He wonders if it's raining up above, if the clouds have already returned to grant relief from the sun. Probably not; they haven't finished yet. He reaches up and pulls Arthur down to kiss him, and feels his magic rise again, yearning for what only Arthur can give it. Arthur pressed down against him, covering him, all skin against skin, and Merlin's magic shimmers in triumph. 

"My king," Merlin groans, holding him, pulling at him as if to force him even closer. He can't, so he rises up against Arthur's mouth, kissing him and kissing him. 

"Slow down there," Gwaine laughs. "I believe the rules say the rest of us go first."

After one last kiss Arthur pulls away, his hand on Merlin's chest to hold him back. "Gwaine's right," Arthur says, reluctantly. "We have to do this properly."

Merlin pouts, but relents. Balance has to be restored, or they'll end up with an earthquake or a flood or some other disaster that's even worse than the drought. There's too much wild magic sloshing about for the two of them to control on their own.

"I love it when he says that," grins Gwaine, ignoring Arthur's resulting glare. "Now scootch over, or a girl might think she isn't welcome."

Arthur moves off, but stays within touching distance. 

"You're always welcome," Merlin says, smiling back and feeling terribly fond. Gwaine has loved him for a long time, came to Camelot and stayed for Merlin far more than for Arthur. He was the least surprised of everyone when Merlin finally revealed his magic, and supported Merlin as he and Arthur struggled their way to forgiveness. He is steadfast and generous and laughs easily, and he is Merlin's favorite of the knights, no matter how jealous it makes Arthur. Arthur has no reason to be jealous because Merlin is his forever, but fortunately he is cute when he pouts.

"I bet you're still hot inside," Gwaine murmured, stroking his hand along Merlin's flank. "Do you know your eyes are glowing?"

"Oh," Merlin says, a little surprised. His magic has run so high these past weeks that this relative calm seems like nothing, but of course it isn't. It will take more than a few kisses to bring his eyes back to blue. 

"Better cool me down," he smirks, and Gwaine's eyes fill with a heat of their own.

"I'll quench you," Gwaine promises, and smacks Merlin on the thigh. "Now give us what we want, you little tease."

Merlin laughs and moves onto his hands and knees, grateful for the thick blankets instead of the unforgiving stone. The others move into place around him, and Merlin is as relieved as always by the fact that they are all at least half-hard already. He knows they would gladly sacrifice themselves for Camelot, but it's better because they are doing this for him, with him.

"Perce?" Merlin asks, turning to the man at his right. Percival smiles back. He's always been the quiet one, content to prove his worth with actions rather than words. He reminds Merlin of a mountain lake, the still waters so calm and clear that you do not realize their depths until it's too late. Though he and Gwaine are inseparable now, Merlin still thinks of him as Lancelot's first, and the memory of their lost friend is what first brought he and Merlin together.

Coming from Cenred's kingdom, Percival is used to magic, but there is always awe in his eyes when it comes to Merlin's. Merlin supposes he is a far cry from whatever hedge-sorcery Percival knew back home. For all his strength, Percival always holds him delicately, as if deceived by Merlin's still-slim body and unable to truly accept the power within it. Merlin has tried to convince him not to be so restrained, but to no avail.

That will not be a problem with Mordred. Merlin turns to him last, and even in the soft light he is struck by the intensity of Mordred's gaze.

 _Emrys_ , Mordred says, into his head.

 _We should really speak aloud,_ Merlin reminds him. Arthur hates it when the two of them get lost in conversation together and it looks like they're trying to stare each other down. He claims it makes him nervous because the two of them have had such a tumultuous relationship, but Merlin is certain that the truth is that Arthur hates being left out of anything. Merlin has called him nosy for it, and Arthur has replied that it's his job to be nosy, for a king must know everything about his kingdom if he is to rule it properly. It might be true but it's also playing dirty, since Arthur knows that Merlin has a weakness for Arthur being noble and commanding. It always makes him want to fall to his knees for Arthur, whether in supplication or more licentious forms of worship.

As if in response to Merlin's wandering thoughts, Arthur rests a hand on Merlin's neck, soothing and proprietary. 

_Let me thank you for this honor,_ Mordred continues. _And for your trust._

Merlin tries not to internally cringe. The two of them have worked out their differences, but Merlin still feels guilty for how poorly he's treated Mordred over the years, from nearly letting him be captured by Uther to refusing his friendship over and over, returning every open gesture with hostility and suspicion. He had been unable to see Mordred as anything but a threat to Arthur, unable to see the boy and man behind the shroud of prophecy. Mordred had risen above it anyway, mostly because of Arthur and the hope that he embodied, of something better than the endless cycle of vengeance.

 _I do trust you,_ Merlin assures him, and he means it. Mordred fought by Arthur's side at Camlann, and lured Morgana so that Merlin could kill her, once and for all. He's more than earned Merlin's trust, even if things are not always easy between them still. Like all Druids, Mordred grew up on stories of the great Emrys, and he both worships Merlin for what he is and pushes him to behave as the figure of destiny that he is meant to be. It's embarrassing and flattering and irritating all at once, and the worst part is that Merlin knows it has worked. Mordred's faith in him makes him try harder to embrace his magic, to work with the Druids, to participate in the ceremonies of the Old Religion, even when he'd be happier going back to being Arthur's shadow again. When Merlin complains about this to Arthur, Arthur only laughs at him, and says with great satisfaction that now Merlin knows what it feels like.

Gwaine's slick fingers drag Merlin's attention back to the present, and the urgency of what they are doing. Merlin gives a soft moan as Gwaine opens him up and tips the sacred oil into him. The others slick themselves, and Merlin feels the tingling heat in his arse. Arthur pours the last of the oil into Merlin's mouth, and the same heat pools in his throat and in his belly. It doesn't take long before he is suffused by it, before he is restless and pliant and desperate to be touched.

"Come on boys, we don't want to leave him waiting," Gwaine says, and they each lay a hand on him, and rest a hand on the arm to their right. They form an unbroken chain, and Merlin chants the words that will open them all up for the deeper binding ahead. From this point forward, they have to stay in contact. They have to keep touching him, all of them, or the spell will fail. 

He feels the fire in him rise again, up from its bank of coals. It seeks towards Arthur's hand, still steady on his neck. When they've done this before, to restore the balance from a bitter winter or a spring where the rains will not stop, Arthur is the one to feed him fire. It's the only element that can really damage him, because he is still flesh, still human even if he isn't human at all. But when it's Arthur's fire, when he's freezing inside and Arthur is golden and powerful and passionate above him, he's never afraid.

Their hands upon him tremble as his magic enters them, spreading up their arms and filling their bodies. For Merlin it's the slightest release of pressure, but for them... Percival once described it as the most alive he'd ever felt. That it let him see all the magic of the world for the first time, and when it faded away days later, he had cried at the loss of it. Gwaine takes it more in stride, experiencing for the sake of experience, and Mordred accepts it religiously, which creeps Merlin out just a bit, even if for a Druid it _should_ be religious. And for Arthur... 

It helps Arthur understand. Understand what was denied him for the first twenty years of his life. What brings life and prosperity to his kingdom. What his father sought to destroy, and what gave Arthur his very life and saved it countless times over. It helps him understand Merlin to see the world as he sees it, just for a while, the way everything is alive and everything is connected. The way magic flows in rhythms and cycles, that to change one thing is to change everything else. How the balance of the Old Religion is not a static state but a constant pull in all directions at once, how there is give in some places and not in others. In the days after he is filled with Merlin's magic, Arthur is at his most thoughtful, seeing his kingdom with his new eyes and trying to memorize everything before it becomes invisible again.

But all of that is for later. Sex magic is as consuming as it is powerful, and Merlin can feel the need building inside him, to be taken and filled and conquered by the king and his knights, for them to seize control over his unruly magic as they must to restore order to the unruly land. Their hands upon him become more grasping, kneading, like the only thing that holds them back is that they can't all fuck him at once.

"Do it," Merlin groans, thrusting back towards Gwaine, and Gwaine responds with a hard smack to Merlin's arse. He grips both cheeks and kneads them, spreads them, and instead of filling Merlin he licks him.

"Gwaine," Merlin whines, unable to bear being teased right now, but the others hold him still, themselves driven by the magic's need. Gwaine is an incorrigible, inveterate tease. He likes to go first when Merlin is still tight and empty, likes to take his time even when Merlin begs for him to please, _please_ fuck him. It's probably his revenge for not being able to have Merlin all to himself, because for all that Gwaine claims no want of emotional ties, he has always behaved entirely opposite that when it comes to Merlin. It sets Arthur off terribly, and it's no wonder the two have never exactly got along.

Except in this, when they are wholehearted in their shared desire to hold Merlin down and make him beg.

Merlin is caught by the sight of Arthur's cock, full and dark and glistening with sacred oil. He reaches for it with his mouth, but Arthur's hand on his neck restrains him, and then Gwaine is tugging him back to continue his teasing. But Merlin's mouth is watering and he tries again, straining against their hands with a grunt. He wants to reach out and take but he can't, he can't. He feels like his hands and knees are glued to the floor, even though there's nothing restraining him. He's stopped from the inside.

"Please," Merlin begs, looking from Arthur to Mordred to Arthur to Percival. Arthur just holds him, one hand on his neck and one in his hair, soothing as much as restraining. But the others begin to touch him more actively, stroking his back and sides and belly, pinching his nipples and the sensitive skin under his arms. If he squirms too much, trying to get away even though he can't, Gwaine slaps him on the arse, and it's not long before it's as throbbing and aching as his cock, which no one will touch no matter how much he begs them to.

"You're so beautiful like this," Arthur murmurs, as he leans down to kiss him. It's barely a brush against his lips it's so light, and then another. "Don't fight us. Let it happen."

"Arthur, please, let me, please," Merlin begs, because it feels like he's burning inside, not from fire but from wanting. He _aches_ for them, all of them, his body and his magic straining to take and take and take because they're the only thing that can soothe him. His whole self is taut with need, but he can't move, can't take what's his, because he is theirs and they won't take him until he accepts that.

"Not yet," Arthur chides. His thumb drags along Merlin's mouth, and when Merlin's tongue peeks out to taste it, Arthur takes a harsh breath. "Tell me what you are," he commands, low and wanting.

Merlin's mind is fogged with lust. "Magic," he says, feeling the truth of it keenly, that he is magic and not a sorcerer, not even a warlock. When he is so full, so alight, if he is cut he will bleed red and gold, the colors of his king. Blood and magic, that is what they stand for, what they have always stood for, despite decades of ignorance. "Dragonlord."

"And what am I?"

"King," Merlin says. "Dragon King." He gives a soft cry as something moves inside him, and his arms lower themselves without his control. "Dragon King," he echoes, his forehead pressed to the blanket. Arthur Pendragon was born of magic, and the oldest and most powerful is dragon magic. Nimueh could use nothing less to create so important a life.

"Will you submit to your king?" Arthur asks, soft yet undeniably regal.

"Yes," speaks Merlin's magic, Camelot's magic, with his voice.

"Will you submit to my knights?"

"I submit," speaks his voice.

"Then give yourself," Arthur says, and pulls Merlin up by the scruff of his neck, and kisses him, long and deep and dominating. Merlin feels like he's falling, falling, like all of Camelot is inside him and it's too much. But he doesn't fight anymore, can't fight when he is in the grip of his king, and four pairs of hands catch him.

"That will never stop being weird," Gwaine says, close and distant all at once, and someone hushes him, probably Percival.

"He's ready," Arthur says. "Take him."

"Finally," Gwaine says, and there's a press and a push and Merlin's breath catches as he's filled. Gwaine fucks like he does everything else, wholeheartedly and with an odd sort of grace. He drives into Merlin like he's proving something, and Merlin sways under the force of his thrusts, the strength of them met by the hands that brace him.

"That's it," Arthur says, petting Merlin and brushing the sweat from his forehead. "So good like this. So sweet."

"Arthur," Merlin sighs, voice breaking into a whimper as Gwaine thrusts deep, pounding him open. He is no longer his own, become Camelot and then Camelot taken in hand.

Merlin feels his arousal build and build, driven by the hands holding him tightly, the deep thrusts of Gwaine's cock. The faster Gwaine fucks him, the closer he comes to his own climax, because his is now bound to Gwaine's. When Gwaine buries himself deep and comes, Merlin does as well, but not from his cock, which pulses dry. It's his magic that pours forth, the earth magic that Gwaine gave him returning to him, filling him up. Gwaine curses aloud, and then he's out and leaning against Merlin's back, panting. 

"Fuck," he says, with some effort. His eyes are glowing golden, his body barely containing all the magic that has been put into it. "Your turn."

Gwaine and Percival trade places, Gwaine ducking under Percival's arm so they don't break contact with Merlin. He barely waits for Arthur's nod before pressing his erection to Merlin's arse. He's thick and wide and patient and it wakes Merlin up again after his release. He can't properly come until the very end, but giving up so much magic at once leaves him with the same shuddering relief.

"Gods," Merlin groans, arching his spine. "Harder."

Percival gives an absent hum, but doesn't change his pace. It's almost torturous, how slowly Percival fucks. If he thinks it makes up for his size he's misguided; if anything, it makes the stretch and burn of it more intense. When Percival does oblige him with a sharper thrust, squeezing another fraction inside, Merlin's toes curl and he grips the blanket, lets out a high whimper. He can feel Gwaine's spendings oozing out of him and dripping down his balls, pushed out because there's not enough room inside him.

And then he's finally all the way deep, bottomed out and heavy over Merlin's back.

"You feel so good," Percival sighs, one arm wrapped around and stroking Merlin's belly. He thrusts shallowly, keeping himself fully inside, just moving his hips a little to make friction for them. Someone's hand strokes Merlin's cock, coaxing him back to fullness. Arthur kisses him, murmurs encouragement to him. He can feel Mordred watching him, hungry and worshipful, eager to be inside Merlin, to receive from both Camelot and Emrys. 

"Slowpoke," Gwaine complains, sweat beading on his face. The downside of going first is that he has to hold the magic the longest, and it is difficult even for someone like Mordred, who has trained all his life. He wipes at his forehead with the back of his arm, and Merlin distantly realizes that Gwaine is the one with his hand on his cock. Probably trying to hurry things along.

Arthur realizes it as well. "No cheating," he says, dryly.

Gwaine gives a crooked smirk. "Easy for you to say. You're not the one stuffed for the feast."

"You're not the... only one," Merlin pants. He hisses as Percival finally draws back, slow and steady, and then thrusts all the way in again. "Next time I should... have Arthur... use a candle."

Arthur strokes his cheek. "You want me to stretch you out? Make you loose and ready first?"

Percival chokes back a moan. "Don't you dare. Sire."

"Are you telling your king what to do?" Arthur asks, archly.

Percival starts moving with purpose now, and Merlin whimpers helplessly. "Never, sire," he grunts.

"You can't," Mordred says, his grip tight on Merlin's body. "Merlin must be chaste for a week before the ceremony."

"Don't remind me," Arthur sighs.

"The things we do for Camelot, eh?" Gwaine says, his smirk full now. 

Gwaine lets his grip ease into a loose fist, letting Merlin's cock slide against his slick palm as Percival drives into him over and over. Merlin can feel his arousal matching with Percival's, enslaved to it as the water magic rises and rises. Between them he's dragged like a puppet to their climax, Percival coming into him and Camelot into Percival, with his body as the medium. Percival chokes back a cry as he pulls out, and Merlin nearly collapses.

"Halfway there," Arthur says, as they hold him up. "How do you feel?"

Merlin feels full and empty all at once, feels spent and aching with need. He feels incredibly alive. "Tired," he says. "Good. Keep going."

It's Mordred's turn now, and he strokes Merlin's hips with quiet reverence. He hooks his thumbs at the rim and stretches his hole, taking his time as if reading some holy scroll. Which he is, in a way, as he can see the magics swirling in Merlin's body. There's only air and fire left now, and together they burn bright. 

Gwaine elbows Mordred. "Come on. He's not going to fuck himself."

Mordred snorts. "You have no sense of ceremony. This is a holy act."

"There's a hole involved alright."

"if you do not have the strength to bear the magic, you should not be in such a hurry to go first every time," Mordred replies, annoyed.

Percival laughs, and Merlin giggles. It's nice being wanted, but this really isn't the time for them to fight over him. 

Mordred sinks into Merlin with a pointed thrust. _The elders would hardly approve, Emrys,_ he speaks into Merlin's head.

 _The elders take everything too seriously,_ Merlin retorts. He has met with a lot of Druid leaders over the years, some even-tempered and some warriors in their own right. The elders, however, are far too sombre, and are always going on about the importance of everything. Merlin should invite Gwaine along to one of the more minor ceremonies just to see how much trouble he can make. Of course, then he'll have to clean up the fallout, and Arthur will be grumpy for days, but it might be worth it anyway, just to see their faces.

Merlin never asked to be their Emrys. They keep calling him that no matter how often he asks them not to, though at least they usually call him Merlin when they speak with their mouths and not their thoughts. He likes the Druids, but sometimes he thinks they wish he were more... Emrysy. But it doesn't do to be thinking about politics when he's being fucked so nicely. Mordred is just right inside him, and makes sure to hit all the nice places inside of Merlin, especially as he's already so wet and tender.

"Mm, that's good," he sighs, giving a clench and a wriggle.

"Always eager," Arthur smirks, looking over him to Mordred. There's speculation in his eyes, and Merlin suspects Arthur might finally ask if they can do something together, just the three of them, without any natural disasters or ceremonies involved. Arthur has always been fond of Mordred, but he's just had his coming of age and Arthur may no longer feel quite like they're robbing the cradle.

 _I would be happy to serve you both,_ Mordred tells him, and Merlin realizes with embarrassment that he hadn't guarded his thoughts. But to be fair, he is rather distracted. And he wouldn't mind being between them both, with Arthur in his mouth. Or maybe Arthur in the middle, being the eager one between them. He lets Mordred see the thoughts, and is rewarded with a deep thrust and an eager groan. Feeling naughtier than he should when he's full of come and surrounded by four naked men, he shares the images with Arthur, and Arthur chokes back a moan.

"You do realize that I'm full of your magic," Arthur murmurs. "I bet I can do that mind thing, too."

"Don't need magic to know what you're thinking," Merlin says, with some effort.

"Brat," Arthur says, but presses his thumb into Merlin's mouth for him to suck. Merlin can feel Arthur trying to use his magic, thinking so hard he's likely to break something, but while it's amusing to watch it doesn't work. Merlin hollows his cheeks so he doesn't laugh.

"Give him a smack for me," Arthur says, as revenge, and both Percival and Gwaine oblige, making Merlin squeak around Arthur's thumb.

Mordred chuckles, despite himself, and dares a smack of his own. It makes Merlin clench, so he keeps going until Merlin is squirming, his arse and cock once again throbbing in time. 

"Now he's getting it," Gwaine says, approvingly. 

Merlin thinks that if they all start getting along, it will only mean trouble. Mostly for himself. It's bad enough when any two of them gang up on him, he'd never survive all four at once. He blushes, glad that he shielded that thought, because it would be hard to argue that ceremonial group sex doesn't count.

It's possible that he may be getting a bit giddy.

Merlin lets go of Arthur's thumb and hangs his head, taking deep breaths. He needs to come so badly, every thrust only makes it worse. The remaining magic is just as restless inside him, straining for release, to be taken into the last knight and the king. It craves them, Camelot craves them, Merlin craves them, wants to mingle inside them and then burst out again and become whole and complete.

"Mordred, _please_ ," Merlin whines, impatient. 

"You should see yourself," Arthur says, eyes dark with lust as he watches Mordred fuck him. "How desperate will you be when I'm inside you?"

Merlin moans. "Can't..."

"You can," Arthur tells him. "You will. Because I tell you to. Because you're mine."

Merlin shivers, and Camelot shivers, because Arthur only has to say it to make it true. He is their king, their Dragon King, born of magic to rule over it. 

"Yes," Merlin says, his voice not entirely his own. "Please, I want... I will..."

"Take him," Arthur orders Mordred. "Fill him up. Give yourself."

"Sire," Mordred groans, and chuckles, and obeys. He moves faster, harder, his arousal dragging Merlin along until they come, Mordred gasping and Merlin sobbing.

All that's left now is fire, and it _burns_. It's almost as bad as when they started, when he ached with fever down to his marrow. But now it's all bunched up inside him, straining to get out.

After coming dry three times, Merlin is limp in their arms. Even though he can't move on his own, they can move him. He's pulled and pushed until he's turned around to face Gwaine, and Arthur wastes no time in sinking into him with a long, slow thrust.

"So wet," Arthur groans, fucking him through all their come and what's left of the sacred oil. Merlin is tilted downward, and Arthur is driving it all deeper, each thrust pushing it further into Merlin's body. His body wants it deeper, needs it, draws it in, and Arthur hisses as the magic reaches for what he has not yet given.

"Behave," Arthur chides, and the pull eases. The magic obeys him directly, which is just as well because Merlin is too far gone to control it himself. He's just a vessel now, a conduit between the kingdom and its king, nearly given over completely. Once Arthur makes him come, he'll be lost, gloriously lost, and he's already so close because he can feel that Arthur can't last much longer.

"Stay with us, Merlin" Gwaine says, tender now. He pets Merlin soothingly, the way Arthur did earlier, and leans down to kiss him. "Stay with me."

Merlin tries to speak, but he can't make any words. He keens softly into Gwaine's mouth as Gwaine kisses him, stealing his fill right under Arthur's nose because there's nothing Arthur can do about it. 

"Feel him," Mordred says, fervent from the power that he strains to hold. He strokes Merlin's cock to help him along, so his arousal will catch to Arthur's. _Feel your king inside you, claiming you as his own. Your magic is his, Emrys. Give it to him. Give him everything you are._

 _Arthur_ , Merlin sobs, his mind open wide for everyone to hear. _Arthur please, please please, I'm yours, please!_

"You are," Arthur growls, hands tight on Merlin's hips as he pounds into him, still the warrior-king, as virile and strong as the day they met. Merlin has been yearning for Arthur all week, during his enforced celibacy and his fever, and it feels like Arthur is trying to make up for the lost time. He fucks Merlin's body like he's teaching it a lesson, like he's staking his claim anew, like he's reminding Merlin's magic and Camelot's magic who's in charge, and it's _him_ , and they'd best remember it. 

The fire magic strains for Arthur, and the moment they come it rushes out of Merlin and into their king. Merlin is filled and emptied all at once, whining pitifully as he comes dry again, and then shuddering as Camelot rushes in to fill all the emptiness inside him. He arches taut in their hands, full of more magic than even he can contain, even as the magic calls back what has just left him.

The four of them turn him over and lay him on his back, all of them straining with magic, eyes golden in the low light. Merlin is only barely aware of what's happening, but he feels fingers pushing inside him and then smearing wet on his body, one two three four, and then there are words and he arches up from the blanket, eyes rolling in his head.

"Eorðe hiersumaþ me, hine bind ond ða heold."

"Wæter hiersumaþ me, hine bind ond ða heold."

"Lyft hiersumaþ me, hine bind ond ða heold."

"Fyr hiersumaþ me, hine bind ond ða heold."

_Earth, water, air and fire, bind and possess him._

Wetness spatters him from all directions, and everything rushes back into him, each element transformed by its time inside knight and king. They're still powerful but they've been tamed, and when they come together inside him they _sing_. Merlin sobs as his whole existence narrows in their harmonies, in their harmony with the land, all the magics blending into one glorious whole. And at the height of their song, it is Arthur they call for, Dragon King, King of All.

Arthur answers them, and they rise to him. He bends for them, and takes Merlin into his mouth, and Merlin comes, pouring out and out, the earth trembling with him as he shudders and falls.

When he comes back to himself, he's alone inside himself at last, only his own magic left, and it is as exhausted as he is. He's covered in come, outside and in, and everyone else is sprawled around him, panting and wrecked.

"Now that's what I call a good time," Gwaine says, with weak triumph.

Arthur smacks him on the foot, because that's the only part of Gwaine he can reach. He sits up with a groan and wipes the come from his chin.

From far above, they hear the faint crack of lightning, and a deep, resonant rumble of thunder.

§

Eventually they're coherent enough to wash off in the stream and dress. They have to carry Merlin back up to the cavern entrance, taking turns because they're all so tired and Merlin can do little more than hold on as he's hung between each pair of them. When they reach the top, Leon has gathered the horses under a canopy, and it's absolutely pouring down rain.

"Went well, sire?" Leon says, amused at the state of them.

Arthur nods, and they hand Merlin off to Leon, who takes him with a grunt.

"You're like a sack of rocks," Leon complains.

Merlin gives him an addled, blissful smile. He might be a sack of rocks -- a very sore sack of rocks -- but he feels very, very good.

"He's riding with you," Arthur tells him. "Otherwise we'll never get him home."

"Can't have the royal warlock dragged home covered in mud," Gwaine smiles, pulling an oilskin from his pack and a second for Merlin.

"Everyone will want a feast to celebrate the rain," Mordred says, staring up at the dark, heavy clouds.

"As long as I can sleep for a week afterwards," Percival yawns.

Arthur takes the oilskin from Gwaine and puts it on Merlin himself. "You all right?" he asks, tilting his chin up so Arthur can look him in the eyes.

"Yeah," Merlin smiles. "Just really, really tired."

Arthur kisses him, once and sweet. "Thank you," he says. "You know, I remember thinking that once there was peace, you wouldn't have to keep saving me anymore."

"I'll always save you," Merlin says, with all the strength he can muster. Camelot is its king, and he will always save his king.

"I know," Arthur says, love shining in his eyes, beneath the glow of magic. "I know you will. Now come on, let's get you home."


End file.
